To reflect the short local adventures we’ve all shifted to, I decided to write a compilation of little moments. I went back through my calendar and put together a few sentences from fifteen days in May, then re-arranged them into the following compilation. It turned into poetry.
Small, local, or indoor adventures can be just as beautiful as the big ones.
My eyes flashed pink and rust. The steel beneath my feet trembled, haunted by a mechanical ghost. Cracked boards lay hopscotch under pitted rails, and fuchsia sneakers insulted antiquity step by step. My arms swiveled skyward to catch balance, I missed.
Light shattered into a million pieces, a fantasy version of the world we live in. Branches bounced on waves, clouds pushed by paddles. I could have fallen into the sky.
Instead I fell six feet apart. Leaves cracked the silence, and I grasped at blurred memories. So much changed, the time in between unknown. You laughed and I smiled, my voice ached from underuse. I stumbled, and am still scared by the unexpected. I had only tripped on myself.
Completely alone again water roared and tugged at my senses. Jagged rock punctuated the air, and fear gripped my insides. More rusted metal. I moved a foot and it began to shake. Cables and trail markers appealed to logic, movement and height begged me to stop. Reason hung in the twenty feet between the soles of my feet and the death of a fall. Imagination reeled at pounding water and mangled rock. I stepped towards logic.
My steps followed an arrow, sited landmarks imprinted in my head. Black flies tested my patience. Liquid earth consumed my calves, and ice leaked into my boots. Squelched feet fought magnetic mud. Time to turn back.
At home music replaced blood and colored my veins. New songs felt familiar. The outside world disappeared in shades of drizzle. Paint stained my fingers, marks from pigmented sound that bled from my hands and seeped meaning to paper. Small attempts to bring life inside.
Outside more black flies. This time my feet sank deep into leaves dotted with trout lilies and trillium. Red arrow in a red line. Long minutes studying maps and I arrived surprised at the destination. A small distance but a proud accomplishment.
Feet crunched through snow at the wrong time of year. A short hike off trail, six feet apart. New discoveries on a familiar mountain. Proof that routine begs oblivion.
I returned to the now intimate tracks and pink sneakers hit gravel in perfect rhythm. A mile later, I was doubled over and spewing out broken swear words. Back to pink sneakers on rusted metal.
Orange peel simmered in water and sugar. Thick batter and sweet aromas. The clock was past midnight, but my thoughts were bound to pirate ships and polaroid pictures. Charcoal smudged my face, I tried to bring the songs to life.
Through tired eyes three boats floated more than six feet apart. Pitcher plants and yellow-rumped warblers. A world at bliss from reality.
At sea again, wind nudged me in all directions as waves splashed gently into my boat. Light bent on dizzy waves. Black swelled white with fresh gusts of wind. Water sloshed at my ankles and both arms threatened mutiny. Time to turn around.
I returned to a spot filled with trash, six feet apart from a future housemate. We joked about courage, and if we would ever be brave enough for a t-shirt. Again, I stumbled.
This time I caught balance and pink sneakers returned to rusted metal. My thoughts drifted to blurred window pane faces and distant laughter. The times that once were, and what was yet to be.
The trail register came into view, I had reached the end far too soon. Something in me was reluctant to stop walking, no one else was there. I turned around and hit repeat.
